


Waiting for the Sun

by GrimAnonymousRex



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Childhood Trauma, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other, Rated M for Safety, childhood neglect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:34:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimAnonymousRex/pseuds/GrimAnonymousRex
Summary: Secret Santa gift fic for Moon Crow! This was very interesting to write and I hope I filled the brief for you! I would like to explore this further at some point
Relationships: Denmark and Sweden, Finland/Sweden (Hetalia), Norway and Sweden
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20
Collections: Nordictalia Secret Santa





	Waiting for the Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moon_Crow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moon_Crow/gifts).



It's freezing cold. Winter once more holds the lands in his icy grasp, choking the life from anything and everything he touches.

"Please..."

Or, rather, almost everything. The small boy sits huddled against a tree-trunk, shivering with cold and desperately trying to shelter from the elements. He knows he cannot die, experience has taught him this, but the ordeal is indescribably painful as tiny shards of ice form in his extremities and hypothermia ravages his form. He also knows his pleas are useless and will go unheard but it doesn't stop him from crying out for help, After all, he is only a child; helpless, vulnerable. 

' _He needs toughening up, Astra, just look at him!'_

Sickly.

_'You think I haven't tried, Aldrich? Training, hunting, and I can't take him on raids with the others. It's hopeless.'_

_'Romulus has the right idea, leaving the weak ones on a hillside. A new one will emerge, this one is useless.'_

A disappointment. A failure.

_'Very well. We'll just have to hope the other two fair better.'_

Not even worthy of a name, unlike Norge and Danmark. The woman he knew as Mother had named them Lukas and Magnus respectively- a child of light and a child destined for greatness. He is neither, but still he refuses to die. Why this is he cannot say, but still he waits for the arrival of the sun.

Years pass and little changes. He certainly doesn't, though he really doesn't know why the men and women grow old and wither while he and his brothers stay young. Lukas and Magnus have grown stronger too, taller and broader while he middles along and fights to catch up to them. He's not as fast, not so agile as his clumsy form strains and fights to reach their heights and prowess. While they go away to raid he stays put and is put to work elsewhere; in the fields, in the homes with the women or those too useless and infirm to wade into battle. He works until his back feels broken and he can no longer life his arms above his head, fighting, always fighting, for worth and recognition. He fights to please and loses every battle.

_'If he can't fight, he might as well stay with the village. Maybe this sickness will take him, it's spreading fast enough.'_

It nearly does. The sickness which takes the elderly away to Helgafjell or Hel ravages his form with fever and welts and indescribable pain but does not grant him the mercy of death. Night falls and he waits to see the sun rise here, or to taunt him forever beyond the horizon in the afterlife.

The boys he hasn't seen for decades now stand before him older, bright with victory and merciless eyes. He looks down at them- when did he grow to be taller than them both? Magnus's lip curls in that way it always used to before he would push him down in the dirt, but Lukas looks... What is that look? He knows he's seen it somewhere before. It's not a smile, and it's not pleasant, but all the same it makes him stand that little bit taller still.

A hand claps his shoulder. It's not as strong as it once was and the arm which bears it is thin. Shrewd eyes examine from under a mane of golden and grey hair before turning to his brothers.

_'Take him with you.'_

He's so shocked that he almost doesn't hear the

_'Maybe that son of Saami will finish him off, or the brat of Novgorod.'_

Garbed in furs and wielding an axe only used to cleave wood and not skulls, he waits for the sun to rise over the sea.

Bathed in crimson, the blood of his first baptises him. Horrified, almost calm with catatonia, he finally recognises that look on his mother's face. He's been waiting for so long, fighting so long but now, standing small above the corpse and hands drenched in gore, the look of pride disgusts him. That insane glint in her eyes turns his stomach because the last shred of innocence has gone, the final tether to who he was has snapped to leave him adrift in redness and hatred.

A fearsome cry of rage erupts from his chest, wading into the thick of battle. It's easy now, far too easy, when he imagines that every man he strikes is the one who drove him to this.

_'My son, Berwald. Mighty Sweden.'_

It's not worth the cost, never could be. He screams towards the heavens, the pain in his chest as the final bond is sealed to the land beneath his feet as he watches her body fall. 

As the pyre burns low, only he remains to stand sentinel over the dead. Not even Magnus could bear to stay for long, the favourite son carried away drunk by Lukas. Hours pass, overwhelmed by the acrid smell of burned flesh and seared bones, Berwald remains waiting for the dawn.

He needs to make sure she doesn't come back.

  
Centuries vanish, dissolving behind him in a wake of blood and strife. So much has been lost; his Empire, the glory of Kalmar and more. The death of love. Finland.

It comes as a great shock when Timo takes his hand once more, stained and monstrous as it is. All his life spent waiting for the sun to rise, broken and filthy and hurting, but there stands Timo before him with shining eyes. He calls him by his name, waking him nightmare after nightmare and holding him safe.

"I love you, Berwald," he says. "I forgive you." He understands now, reading the letter he never got to send. 

He'll never forgive her, but now, as he commits the paper to the flames which warm the hearth of their house, Berwald finally starts to feel something like peace.


End file.
